Birthday
by studentnumber24601
Summary: Four slash stories, tied together by the common thread of Spot's birthday party and lots of alcohol. [rated for slash, swearing, nearnudity... FINISHED.]
1. Jack: Jealous of a Wall

[disclaimer: Disney's, not mine. Alas.]

[Quick note: I'm planning for this to be, essentially, four separate short (slash) stories tied together by a common thread, each told from a different first person POV. I usually try to avoid "wow, everyone in the whole lodging house is gay," stories because they're fairly implausible, but drunk!newsies are too much fun for words, so I figured, what the heck? Anyway, enjoy.]

Birthday 

_Part One: Jack_

_Jealous of the Wall_

Brooklyn. There are a whole hell of a lot of things I could say about Brooklyn. Scariest bunch of guys you'd never want to meet, and sure their leader is a skinny little shrimp—okay, so Conlon finally hit a growth spurt a few months ago and he's less of a shrimp, but still damn skinny—but man, I would not want to cross Spot Conlon. And I'm the most powerful newsie in Manhattan, and I faced down Joe Pulitzer himself, and that's no easy thing there. But I still would not want to cross Spot Conlon.

He's scary. Real scary. But on the other hand, the guy knows how to throw a party. I swear I haven't seen this many newsies together in one place since the rally, and there's girls here, too, and I don't know how this many people could fit in this warehouse, let alone how he got this warehouse to use, but man, this party is the place to be.

The door fee was alcohol. You bring a drink, you get in. And what Spot requested for his birthday presents—though demanded is a better word, really—was more alcohol. And, you know, I don't know why he's so desperate to get so drunk, but that's up to him. Me, I don't drink that much. Got sick on the stuff once or twice, and that's not really a lot of fun, so I'm more careful about it now, though I'm on my second or third drink.

I wonder where Spot's disappeared to, actually, but wherever he is, I can't see him. There are people all around me, so thick I can barely move or breathe, and everyone smells like sweat and liquor, and none of my friends seem to be around. And I think Race said something about a poker game somewhere, so that's probably where he is, at least, and I'm pretty sure I'm hearing Blink drunkenly singing something at the top of his lungs at the other end of the warehouse, which means Mush is probably there, too, trying to keep Blink from embarrassing himself too badly. And if Blink is already singing, the dancing probably isn't far behind, and I feel bad for Mush, really. 

David, though, I expected to stick pretty close to me. He's never been to a real newsie party before, let alone one of Spot's parties, and he still doesn't really feel like he fits in. But he disappeared awhile ago, too.

I take a swig of my drink and wonder why people keep asking if I'm depressed. So I broke it off with Sarah; so what? _She_ knows why, I know why, and it was the right reason. And she was surprisingly okay about it, though I think she was just being nice to me.

Still wondering where Dave is, I stand on my tiptoes for a second, and glance around. I catch a glimpse of him off by himself—or as close to by himself as he could get in this place. He's still drinking, probably still nursing his first beer, knowing him. I can't picture Dave as drunk as the rest of these guys, and to prove my point about the state of everyone else around here, someone knocks into me and I almost topple over.

He slurs a quick apology and disappears into the crowd as I make my way towards the corner where I saw David. Sure enough, he's leaning against the wall, watching people around him, clutching a bottle. His eyes don't look focused quite right, though, and he doesn't react when I say hello. Which is odd, because now that I think about it, David always reacts to me. 

The thought that maybe he doesn't care that I just showed up is surprisingly upsetting. But that's probably just my ego talking. If he's the Walking Mouth, I'm the Walking Ego, and I don't like the thought that Dave might not be thrilled to see me.

"Dave?" I ask practically in his ear, making sure it's loud enough to be heard. He blinks a little and turns around to face me.

"Jack?" he asks, like he's not sure who I am.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I—" he suddenly reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder, and I take most of his weight as he almost collapses. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he finishes.

I glance around at the crowd, and if David is about to throw up, in here is probably not the best place for it. Though it'll be hard to fight our way through the crowd to get him out. Damn it.

*

I suppose that having a lot in your stomach to lose is what comes of having a family where you're eating three meals a day. Or so I'd guess judging by how long David has been standing over that garbage can.

I can't help but smirk a little bit, as he finally straightens up and looks over at me. I swear his skin is green, he's so ill. He steps around the can and leans against the wall; not the way he usually does, to lurk and watch the people around him, but because he looks like he'd fall over if the wall didn't catch him.

Though I'm kind of jealous of the wall. _I_ wouldn't mind catching David, if he ever fell into my arms.

I frown, and remember that I did have a drink or two myself. I'm definitely not drunk, just... I get a little affectionate when I'm tipsy. But a drink or two could never really get to me; I'm Jack Kelly, I can drink anyone under the table!

Wait. Not really. My ego kind of also tends to get out of hand when I'm tipsy. Hmmm. But at least I'm not so far gone that I can't realize I'm drunk. That's probably for the best, right?

"Feel better?" I ask.

"I kind of wish I was dead."

"Just wait for the hangover," I laugh. 

He groans and slides down the alley wall so he's sitting. I kind of like watching him slide like that. I am _definitely_ jealous of that wall.

And drunk. Very definitely drunk.

"Why did I let you drag me here?" he asks.

"You wanted to come," I remind him, and sit down across from him. "You'd never been to a party before."

"Why did you let me drink that much?"

Oh. I guess he wasn't just nursing that one beer all night, then. "I turned around an' you was gone," I tell him with a shrug. "You did it yourself."

"I wouldn't do that," he answers. "I'm not that stupid. I'd never..."

"Yeah, but you never drank before."

"I have so!" he objects. He's so cute when he's indignant. "I drink wine all the time."

"A glass with dinner, right?"

"Yeah... So?"

I laugh again. "That's different, Dave. You never been _drunk_ before."

He thinks about it for a moment, face scrunched up like concentrating is the hardest thing he's ever done. He looks so worried, I just want to hug him, to make it all better. "Guess not," he finally decides. "Does it always feel like this?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Then why do people _do_ it?"

I shrug. "I guess it can be fun, too."

"How?" he demands.

"Well, like, if I'm drunk and I kiss you, it's okay, right, 'cause I'm drunk," I explain, then pause. I probably shouldn't have said that. But I swear, two or three drinks isn't enough to make me _that_ drunk. It was only two or three, right? I frown. I don't remember exactly how many it was. So maybe it _was_ more than that. Damn.

I almost don't realize David's talking, and only hear the end of it. "...are you?" he asks.

"Course not!" I say quickly. I'd never kiss him, really, I remind myself firmly. __

"Too bad," he says, and if I wasn't already looking at him, I'd have done a double take. Must be he didn't ask if I wanted to kiss him, then, but what could he have asked?

"But _I'm_ drunk," he continues, speaking slowly, as if he's working something out. I nod, wondering what's going on. I wish I hadn't missed his question. "So I guess _I'll_ have to, then," he decides, and nods to himself, mind made up about something.

Then he grins and stands, which I do too, and he staggers the short distance across the alley and practically collapses in my arms. Which isn't really a bad thing. Better me than the wall, right? I help him straighten up, but he doesn't seem to want to.

Instead, he leans in and kisses me, then giggles. I'm startled; I forget to keep holding him up and he _does_ collapse on the wall, still giggling. I really, really wish I could be that wall, at least until I remember that he just kissed me. I'll bet he's never kissed a wall.

I must be drunk; "I'll bet he's never kissed a wall," is the stupidest thing I've ever thought in my entire life. But I think I missed the point somehow.

The point was that David kissed me.

I'm glad that's the point, I think, because it means I don't feel so bad when I turn around so I'm facing him, really close, touching him, pinning him against the wall with my body. He looks panicked for a second, but then relaxes and grins. At least he's not giggling anymore.

He starts again when I kiss him, though.

"What?" I demand, a little hurt.

"Jack, you aren't drunk," he laughs. "You said so."

Oh, so _that's_ what he asked. I think about it for a second. "Dave, you never kissed a wall, did you?" I ask.

He gives me a strange look. "No," he says.

I grin. "I _am_ drunk," I inform him, "because I only think stupid things like that when I'm drunk."

"Okaaay." He sounds confused for some reason, but it makes perfect sense to _me._ But instead of explaining it—like David would need me to explain, he's smarter than me anyway—I kiss him again, and this time he doesn't giggle at me.

And when he slips down the wall, I slip down with him, so I guess I don't have to be jealous anymore. 

[end of part one]

[next time: Racetrack's card game, and where Spot disappeared to during his own party. Hint: it's the same place.]

[AN: I have no idea where this came from, but it's keeping me amused, so that's for the best, I guess. Not all the chapters will be quite this fluffy, but I don't _think_ any of them will involve serious angst... We'll see, I guess. 

I think Word scrwed up the formatting when I saved as HTML; I think I got it all fixed, but I appologize for any bizarre characters that might be in the story. Oddly, not a lot else to say, aside from that (as always) CC and/or general feedback is greatly appreciated. :) 

-B]


	2. Spot: You Can't Con a Conman

[disclaimer: Disney's, not mine. Alas.]

Birthday 

_Part Two: Spot_

_You Can't Con a Conman_

I have been planning this for a long time. Four years now, since I was thirteen. I have been planning this night, everything about it, for four very long, tedious years. And tonight, Racetrack Higgins, I am going to teach you a lesson. Tonight, you are going to learn that you can't con a Conlon.

People are scared of me, and I encourage that. People are scared because they _know_ I plot and I plan, that I always get revenge, that I always win in the end. It doesn't matter against who or what the game is, I win. I won Brooklyn when I was fourteen and I've won against everyone who's tried to take it away since. I won—well, fine, _we_ won—against Pulitzer in the strike. I win girls like nobody's business; I win territory, I win respect, I win everything I damn well want.

And tonight, I am going to win at poker against you. It's been a long time coming, too, and a lot of games I've lost—but I don't mind losing once or twice, since I know I'll win in the end. And I've known it ever since that first game, the night I turned thirteen.

No extravagant party that year. No one really knew who I was yet, just some kid who lurked in Bridge's shadow, who was friends with Jack Kelly's boys in Manhattan. So I spent that night in Manhattan.

You'd only been around for a few months. I'd met you once or twice before, but you didn't make much of an impression; just another wiseguy I overlooked. But then we played a game of poker. There were five of us, and you won every hand. You won all of my money, and then let me borrow some back to keep playing, and won that too.

The day I won Brooklyn, a little over a year later, I sent a messenger to Manhattan. Jack came to visit, impressed with me. You came with him, and I paid you back. I always pay my debts, and I always win in the end, but god damn you, you wouldn't take the money.

You told me you didn't need it, that there were enough suckers for you to con out of hard earned cash. But Racetrack, you can't con a Conlon. I was only thirteen then, fourteen by the time I'd worked hard for that damn money you wouldn't take, and tonight I pay back the insult.

Tonight I break your poker face. Tonight I get to see _you_ sweating behind your cards, bluffing and losing, running up debt. I planned tonight very carefully. And you don't know it yet, but you were playing right into my hands.

People think the alcohol is because _I_ want to get incredibly drunk, though Jack said something earlier about getting some girl drunk, taking advantage of her. He was joking, mostly; we both know I can land any skirt I want without resorting to that trick. But _you,_ on the other hand... 

By the time I break away from my admirers—can't let it go to my head if I want to be a good leader—and sneak upstairs into the only office room in the building, you've been playing for awhile. I can tell because the other guys look broke and defeated. And you've all been drinking, too, courtesy of me and the kind guests who brought me enough to keep you drinking all night. There are empties littered all over the place, and you look far too amused.

I may have to cheat, but I _always_ win in the end.

I know you know I'm in the doorway, watching, but you don't look up from your game. You're too good for that; you're serious about cards and won't let me distract you. An insult, sure, I'm the prince of Brooklyn and it's my birthday besides, and I dare anyone else to ignore me, but _you_ know I'd rather beat you at cards than beat you up, which we _both_ know I could do if I wanted to.

Though you aren't bad in a fight yourself. You're wasted in Manhattan, with a poker face like yours and a habit of coming out on top in a fight, you could have done well here in Brooklyn. You'd have been my number one guy, easily. I need more guys who can bluff and whose toughness won't crack, no matter what. I need more guys I can trust behind me in a fight. You really _are_ wasted in Manhattan.

But that doesn't matter to me tonight. Because tonight, I'm going to win. Four years of waiting, and I'm finally going to beat you at your own game.

The three poor fools who're playing you all look up at me nervously, and I nod a little so no one feels the urge to speak up, and wait for you to finish your hand. _Then_ you look over at me. "Heya, Spot," you said, sounding amused.

"Heya, Race," I echo. "How's the cards?"

"Not bad." Everyone else groans; your idea of not bad is different than theirs, and probably they're all broke now, or close to.

You reach for your bottle and take a drink, drain it, and grin at me. I nod back, but nothing makes me happier, right now, than to see that grin. Because usually in a game, you're all business, and you wouldn't even have smiled in anticipation of _our_ game if you weren't drinking. It might not have been much; it's not like you're going to lose the next hand, being dealt now by some kid with glasses, but it's a sign.

"Uh," the glasses kid says—he's one of Jack's boy, I think—"Do you, uh, want in, Spot?"

"Not yet. You guys need anymore to drink?"

"Gracious host," Race laughs, and I think he's trying not to hiccup, and it's all I can do not to smirk. Tonight _will_ be my triumph, at last. "Sure, Conlon, if you're offering."

So I leave them for a minute and round up another few drinks, deliver them upstairs like I was a damned errand boy. You open yours and take a swig, then turn back to your cards and frown for a second, take another drink, and smile.

"This is my last hand," one of the other players mutters, and there's a general agreement.

"Aw, don't run away," Race half-slurs, as they finally put down their cards. And he's _still_ won. But these are pretty mediocre players, most of them drunk themselves, where as _I_ am quite good and haven't had a drop all night.

Despite Racetrack's pleas, the players all opt out of the game and stumble back downstairs. I let myself into the room, nudge the door shut behind me with a foot. "You still feel like playing?"

He takes another drink. "Been waiting for you, Spot," he answers. "Nice of you to invite me. I figured after _last_ time we played, you didn't ever want to see me again."

"Nah," I laugh, sitting down across from him, as he picks up the deck. "I only hold grudges about important things." Important things like when I lose—though I _always _win in the end.

"Awright. Then prepare—" he pauses to collect his thoughts, "prepare to go broke. Again."

"I ain't really interested in going broke, on my birthday and all," I comment as he shuffles. "And you always win anyway, so it ain't like it's a contest."

"You wanna play for _nothing?"_ he asks, incredulous. 

"You got other guys you can con," I remind him, and he laughs and starts to deal.

"But I wanna keep things interesting," he almost whines. "I mean, you've gotten pretty good—better'n most people. No fair to make me play the only interesting game of the night for free."

An idea forms in the back of my mind. I was just going to do to him what he did to me, make him live with knowing how broke he _could_ have been, how he owes me, how he's in my debt. But another thought occurs. I've been losing at poker to Racetrack for a long time now, and while he's pretty mouthy about winning, I doubt he'll be so happy to tell people when he loses. And I don't want to seem like I'm bragging, beating someone who's dead drunk isn't all _that_ impressive, but if there's another way to humiliate him...

"Hmm," I muse, as Race gathers his cards in one hand and takes a drink using the other. "Racetrack, you ever played strip poker?"

*

I'll admit, I'm surprised by how good you are, given how far gone you are. I've seen things tonight I never would have expected; I've seen you fumble your cards, stare at them in horror, gloat when you've got a good hand, and generally forget that you don't ever let things show. I am having far too much fun with this, really.

Because you're down to your last sock. Admittedly, I'm not doing _that_ much better, but you're down to the sock in question and your shorts. But both of my feet are still perfectly warm, and I don't intend to start losing again now.

We lay down our cards—and I frown. Your flush beats my three of a kind, which means we're pretty much even now. I narrow my eyes and kick off my right sock, and I swear you're about to start laughing, and if you laugh at me I _will_ punch your lights out.

I glare, and you suddenly look serious again, and maybe a hint apologetic. But not half as sorry as you're _going_ to be.

See, I don't plan to give your clothes back.

It's my deal and I shuffle once or twice. You finish your drink and wait, clearly impatient. "Can you hurry up?" you finally ask. "I gotta piss."

"You shouldn't a' been drinking," I remind him, as I finish dealing. Which is true, but not for the reason you think. You don't look thrilled with your hand, but discard two and pick up two. You still don't look thrilled, so even though my hand isn't great, just two of a kind, but one of them's a jack, so I figure that'll take high pair if you've got the same thing. I call.

You grumble, of course, you've only got one pair. 

You are now sockless, Racetrack, and the only item left to bet is your shorts. If you want to retain any dignity, you'll bow out now. I even ask if you want to, but you shake your head. "Nah," you decide. "Come too far to give up, right?"

"Yeah," I agree, and you shuffle and deal. "So you're betting it?"

He glances down self-consciously. "Yeah," he says. "Against your sock."

I nod and look at my cards, but they're rotten. Nothing matches anything, and you call before I get a chance to build up to something more than mediocre. Your hand isn't as good as I bet you're used to, but it still beats mine.

And I suddenly realize, we're even. You already said you're not quitting, and damned if I'll let you beat me again. It's all or nothing, Racetrack Higgins, and tonight is my birthday. That's got to be good luck. I am _not_ losing to you. I _will not_ lose to you. Not in _this_ game.

I gather the cards slowly, take my time shuffling. You know I'm going to win, I can see that you just realized it, too, because your poker face went awhile ago. And when you actually have your cards, when you look at them in horror, well, I'm close to laughing in your face. The look on your face is priceless, too, I wish I could get a picture and frame it, hang it on my wall.

My cards are already good, and judging by the look on your face (which I wouldn't be able to do, if you were sober) yours aren't. I've got three of a kind already, sevens, somehow. You discard two and pick them up, and still look dismayed. I discard my spare two, and manage not to start smirking when I pick up the fourth seven. I call.

"Ya know, Race," I say slowly as I set my cards down, "you ougtta know it now—you can't con a Conlon. I always win in the end."

He looks down at my cards a little and nods, sighs, and lays his out. I smirk, then stop and stare. That can't be right. I look at my four of a kind. I look at your—your straight flush. Your _straight fucking flush,_ you _asshole_. 

I stare for a second, then look up at you, and you look remarkably sober.

"Sure thing, Spot," you agree, smirking just a tiny bit. "But what _you_ gotta know is, you can't con a con_man_, either. And I'm the best conman you're ever going to meet."

I stare. He's been drinking all night, I've been watching him, he's been _drunk_ all night, and... "How?" I finally demand, too dazed to be really angry, though I'm sure that given a few minutes to recover, I'll be furious.

"'Cause you didn't notice I was nursing that same drink since you handed it to me," he says, tapping the bottle, "and that one—" he taps one of the empties around the table, the one he finished when I first walked in, "was the first one I'd had all night. The rest was the other guys and maybe my tolerance ain't as good as some people's, but I ain't _that_ cheap a date." He laughs. "Takes more than two cheap beers to get me drunk enough to lose at my own game."

I barely hear him talking. I can't—I—this was supposed to be my triumph! Tonight—it's my _birthday, _for Christ's sake_—_and I never lose, never. I stare at him. 

"It was a good try, though," he acknowledges, "but I think you owe me something."

And Spot Conlon always pays his debts, everyone knows that. I can't back out of this, but I _can_ make him regret it. "I'll kill you for this," I promise him.

"No, you won't," he answers, as I slowly stand and rest a hand, uncomfortably, on the waistline of my shorts. Cocky bastard. Maybe I won't kill him, but I think I'

"How do you know?" I spit.

"'Cause if you kill me, you'll _never_ win at cards." He's smirking, and I swear I _could_ kill him now. Which he's right, I won't, but I think maybe I _will_ beat him senseless. "Besides, you've been planning this for ages. You got us alone up here and nearly naked. You tried to get me really drunk, and you've _always_ had an obsession with me—trying to crack my poker face."

I wonder where he's going with this, and sit back down on the edge of the table. "So?" I ask.

"Spot, I wouldn't have bothered playing along with you if I didn't want something interesting to happen—if I didn't like you."

And it kind of dawns on me, suddenly. "You _like_ me, Race?" I ask.

He shrugs, and I can see his poker face suddenly return. That ain't the kind of thing one guy admits to another, ever. "We been friends for awhile," he says casually.

"Yeah," I agree.

We sit here, nearly naked and very quiet, for what feels like a long time. "You're wasted in Manhattan," I tell him finally, kinda shaken by what I _think_ he just told me, not sure how to react, no idea what to think.

"Nah," he disagrees. "I like Manhattan—I don't want to be scared someone's gonna stick a knife in my back every time I turn around. I gotta be around people I trust."

"I trust you," I say almost immediately—and the thing is, I do trust him. I ought to be angry because god damn it, I never lose, but things—what he said, his damned poker face, our distinct lack of clothes, lots of things—are keeping me calm. Making me think. Making me wonder.

"I trust you, too," he says. "Even though you just tried to cheat me at cards."

"Hey," I say defensively, "I trust you even though you just bluffed me at cards forever."

"Okay," he agrees, and there's another quiet. "So, you gotta girl?" he asks.

"Nah. Girls ain't worth it. They—they want too much of you. Too much time, too much attention, just..." And the words are pouring out of me, like _I_ was the one who was drinking or something. "I stopped dating, ya know? I stick to whores now, 'cause all they want is money. Don't need to worry about nothing else."

There, I said it, out in the open; the great Spot Conlon who could have anyone he wanted prefers to sleep with cheap whores. It's not like I have to, like I couldn't have a girl if I wanted, but... It's trust. I can't trust anyone but a few people, and a girl wouldn't fit in to my life real well.

"Too bad there's no one you trust," he says. "Someone you could work something out with—someone you already trust, you wouldn't have to worry about getting too attached, who would be risking a reputation too so you could _really_ trust whoever you were talking to."

"Yeah," I say. I look over at him, and his brown eyes are all serious. I don't think that's his poker face after all. "Too bad," I say, and the poker face is back, but I can tell what's under it. He's disappointed, but he'd never let on.

But he kind of had a point.

We sit in quiet for a long, long time, this time. Finally, I look over at him again. "Race?" I ask.

"Yeah?"

"I still owe you my shorts."

He grins. "Yeah, you do."

"And I know you're a conman, but I trust you."

He smiles. It isn't even a smirk, it's a smile. I stand again, and so does he. And it's good to have someone to trust.

[end of part two]

[next time: Specs has some serious issues, and Dutchy has a girl on either arm. Which doesn't help Specs get over his issues at all.]

[AN: Wow, I didn't expect such a response. Many, many, many thankyous to everyone who reviewed the last chapter; you inspired me to write this... the same day, actually. I'd have posted it sooner, but sadly, had to do research. Because I'm very lame, and have never played poker. Hopefully that part didn't suck too much.

This chapter was based on a longer, abandoned story I had been working on, but didn't go where I planned it to. It was less fluffy than I planned, but I like the way it turned out. And actually may end up writing a story based on this section. Hmmmm. Because, you know, there really can't be too much S/R slash in the world.

Thanks again for the reviews, and as always, all feedback welcomed. Even if it's mocking my distinct lack of poker skills. ;)

-B]


	3. Specs: Miscommunication

[disclaimer: Disney's, not mine. Alas.]

__

Birthday

Part Three: Specs

Miscommunication

Jesus Christ, it's hot in here. I've been trying to avoid being here all night, and now it's got and sweaty and I really just want to get the hell out. I managed to kill awhile upstairs playing cards, but then Spot showed up and he looked like he had business with Race, and I do _not_ want to get involved in Spot Conlon's business, and anyway, I was pretty much broke.

I hate parties. I hate them. I never fit in; I never talk to people, I never know what to say if someone talks to me. I didn't want to come, I really didn't, but _everyone_ was going. And even then I'd have skipped out, but _he_ had to ask me to come. His smile, his perfect hair, soft voice, gorgeous lips and Jesus _Christ_ I need to stop thinking thoughts like that about Dutchy.

Just because he's the most beautiful person I've ever seen doesn't mean I should think like that. It's sick and wrong, even if it _is_ fun, even if he _is_ beautiful.

And he is. I can see him from my spot on the wall, and he's got a girl on each arm and he's prettier than either one. He's got the right look, and he just radiates I don't know the word; it's that thing that makes you want to be friends with him, to be near him, even before you meet him. Like he glows in a crowd, like he's where the fun is, and people like me only get to watch him across the room because people like me don't have that _thing_ that makes it okay to talk to the gorgeous, glowing blond with a girl on either arm.

I don't even know what that thing is. I just know I don't have it. Like, when he says hi to me in the morning and I choke trying to answer and can barely even say hi back. Let alone actually have a conversation with the guy. I'd love to; I bet he's got lots to say. I mean, he talks to everyone all the time, everyone loves talking to him. But I just can't. I don't know what to say. It's not that I don't want to, I just don't know _how._

So I watch, and I wish he hadn't asked me to come. I knew I shouldn't have. Parties make me depressed, I always end up sitting out, watching and wishing I could be someone else, wishing I could be _him,_ and hating him for it. Because it's just not fair that someone can be so popular and so good with people and so gorgeous and so fucking _perfect._

The glasses even look good on him. On me, they just look awkward and awful, but on _him_ they look like high fashion. They're an accessory, just like the girls. Those stupid fucking girls who fawn on him all the time, because he's _glowing_ in the crowd.

Glowing? Okay, maybe not. Dutchy may be beautiful, but he's not _glowing._ He's not an angel, like I imagine to myself at night when everyone else is asleep. God didn't send him to make my life better, if anything he makes it worse. He makes me want him, and I can never have him. I can never even _talk_ to him, what would I say? I'm just me, just Specs, the _other_ kid with glasses, the one who follows behind the crowd but can't be part of it.

God_damn_it I want to leave. Why the hell don't I just leave?

I don't leave because he's still here. I don't leave because where would I go? It's either stand here with free beer and be depressed, but watch the most gorgeous man in the world, or leave and sit alone at home, depressed, without even something nice to rest my eyes on. So I stay. I stay, and I'm miserable.

I hate him. I swear to God I hate him. No one should be so confident. But I _can't_ hate him because he's also so fucking _nice._ If he was mean–if he made jokes about my glasses or whatever–_then_ I could hate him. It would be easy. But he has to be so damned _nice_ to me whenever we talk. Whenever he talks to me. I couldn't ever just go _talk_ to _him_ because he's so fucking perfect I'd be _ruining_ him just by standing _next_ to him–

He's laughing now, at something one of the girls said, and his laugh is as perfect as the rest of him. Damn it all, this is just making me miserable.

Dutchy's gaze stops near me, and he tears one of his arms free and waves. I glance around to see who the lucky asshole he's waving at is, but don't know any of the guys near me, and I know all of his friends. I shrug to myself and lean back on the wall.

"Hey!" his perfect voice yells. "Specs!"

I stare at him for a second, and he keeps waving me over, so I decide I must not be imagining it and walk over to him. I don't know what he'd want with me, though. I can barely even say "hello" to him.

"Hey," he says.

"Uh, hi," I manage to say, and could just kick myself. I sound like such an idiot. Why the hell does he even bother to talk to me?

"How's your night?" he asks, or at least, I think that's what he asks. He's slurring his words together pretty badly.

"Uh," I say. "Okay. I guess." And my voice cracks. My fucking voice _cracks_. I could not possibly sound any stupider. I want to die. I want to slink off to a corner and _die._ Because he actually wanted to talk to me and I can't fucking talk without my voice cracking like a thirteen year old. 

"You," he says slowly, and shakes a finger at me, then gets distracted by his finger, but eventually starts talking again. "You don't _look_ like you'se having fun."

"I, uh, I'm fine."

He shakes his head a little and his hair does that thing where it flops in his eyes behind his glasses and he laughs and drops his other arm from the girl's shoulder and slings it around me. And I just about die standing here, and I'm almost shaking, because I've barely ever _talked_ to the guy before, and now he's got his arm around me. I don't know what to do. I want to put my arm on his shoulder, too, but what if that's wrong? What if he realizes I like him? What if he starts laughing at me?

"He's fine. Isn't he fine?" he asks the nearest girl. "Fine," he continues, then laughs. "'Cause I didn't want you to come and just be _you_ all night."

That probably made more sense in his head than it did to me, and I don't know what to say. But that doesn't seem to matter, since he continues.

"Because you always, always do that, right? He does," he assures the girls. "Where he goes out with everyone and then just stands off by himself all night and doesn't have _any _fun."

That made a bit more sense, but I still don't know how to react. I mean, it's pretty much true, but what am I suppose to say about it? "Sorry," I say lamely, and the girls start to laugh.

Yeah, go ahead. Laugh at me. Everyone _else_ does. But Dutchy, not you. If you laugh at me, my fucking heart will break. (But if you laugh at me, I think I can hate you, so go ahead and make fun of me.)

"Hey," he tells the girls defensively, "that ain't nice. I bet he is sorry, 'cause no one's ever _shown _him how to have fun. No one's ever shown him a good time before, right, Specs?"

I just kind of nod.

"See!" he says, suddenly sounding triumphant. "See, so it ain't his fault. 'S mine, 'cause I _made_ him come and then let him mope all night, an' that ain't nice of me." He turns to me and says sincerely–or I think it would be sincere if he didn't look like he was going to fall over any second now–"Sorry I'm an asshole, Specs."

Then he starts laughing so hard he doubles over, lets his hand slip from around my neck, then staggers a few steps and falls down. And I don't know if he's laughing at me or not. But he's _not_ laughing any more, he's just lying there. Perfectly still.

Oh, shit.

I stare. Oh _shit._ I don't know if he just passed out from drinking, or if he hit his head, or what, but he's not awake. I kneel next to him, panic rising as the most perfect person I know looks _dead_, and shake him. He doesn't stir, even a little. I look up at the girls, but they look terrified, and people begin to crowd around.

No, that ain't right. He needs to breathe. I stand up and start elbowing people back. "Give him some room, damn it!" I half-yell. "Someone get some water, someone–call a doctor or–just get some fucking water!"

And someone presses a glass of water into my hand I crouch down next to him again, set it down, and reach for his head. I prop it up and his glasses slide down his nose a bit, and I try to pour some of the water down his throat. I don't know if it'll do any good, and it doesn't seem to, so I drip a little over his forehead.

He blinks a little and coughs once or twice, jerks up out of my arms so he's sitting, and then is really sick. He nails someone's shoes, and people begin to back away, which at least gives him some more breathing room. It smells foul, but when he finishes he downs the rest of the water, and I yell until someone gets him some more. The more water, the less likely he is to pass out again, and I can only handle one scare like that.

"You okay?" I ask as quietly as I can and still be heard, but it's a bit quieter now. I think other people got scared too.

"Fine," he says, then starts to laugh again. "Fine, like you." He wrinkles his nose from the scent and tries to stand. He doesn't get far and I catch him, and he keeps laughing as he puts an arm around me for balance, and I think it's about time we get to somewhere with some fresh air.

He staggers with me as I start to walk towards the door, and slips out of my grasp onto the wall of the building as soon as we're outside. "Hooo_ooo_," he says, more or less. I sit on the steps next to him, suddenly not sure what to say or do anymore, now that he's awake. I want to ask him if he's okay, but I can't _talk_ to him, the words catch in my throat.

"Specs," he says, then smiles. "Specs Specs Specs. 'S fun to say. Say it."

"Uh?"

"Come on," he badgers, and I shrug a little and mumble my own name, but I'm rewarded with a giant grin from him. "Specs," he says again, his voice serious like it was before he did his nosedive, "I'm sorry I'm an asshole."

And damn it, I _still_ don't know what to say to that. "You–uh–you aren't," I stutter.

"No," he says insistently. "Because I made you come here and then didn't show you a good time. I shouldn't have–I shouldn't have made you come."

"It's okay."

"It's not."

"I wanted to come," I assure him, lying through my teeth.

"Nuh uh. 'Cause Snitch asked if you were coming and you said no, you didn't feel like it really, and I said, come on, you've gotta come and you paused for a really long time and finally you said you'd go. But you didn't want to."

Okay, so I didn't want to. 

"And then I–I didn't say anything to you all night."

"It's okay."

"Nuh uh," he says insistently. "'Cause–'cause I_ meant_ to talk to you an' make sure you had fun. But then there were those girls an'..." He trails off and shakes his head. "So I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I repeat.

"Really?" he asks. "'Cause if I was you, I'd be pretty mad."

"I'm not mad."

"Why not?" he asks.

And what the hell do I answer? Because I'd do anything you asked? Because I'm pathetic, and queer, and I think I'm in love with you? "Because," I say and grope for words that'll work. "You didn't mean to," I finally manage. Four whole words. I think it's the longest sentence I've ever said to him.

"I didn't," he agrees. He reaches over and puts a hand on my knee, which is the easiest thing for him to reach from the ground while I'm on the stairs. "I wanted to–I meant to show you a good time. Help you have fun." He pauses and looks up at me, still very drunk but so sincere and so _damn_ gorgeous. "You want me to show you a good time?" he asks. "I bet I still could. It's not that late yet."

"Uh," I say, and he squeezes my knee and I really, really don't know what he's talking about or what to say.

"I _want_ to," he says. "I want to make you have fun tonight. You always look so serious, I want to see you smile. I want to make you smile."

His hand begins to move up my leg a little. "If you want me to," he continues, "I bet I could make you smile a _lot."_

I gulp. I think I know what he's saying, and his hand moving up my thigh like that is pretty hard to confuse, but it also makes it kind of hard to think, so I just don't say anything.

He stops. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I shouldn't have." And he drops his hand back to his side.

Damn it. I should have said something; I think I just lost my only chance to ever be close to him. _Why_ can't I talk to him?

"I–" I start, then give up, because I _can't_ talk to him. I can't tell him how I feel about him. 

"Specs?" he asks quietly.

"What?"

"I'm really sorry. For making you come tonight and then ignoring you and then passing out and then Just then. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I manage to say.

He shakes his head and looks down at the ground, and I wish he'd look back up at me so I could see his eyes. If you bother to look past his glasses, he's got gorgeous eyes–just like the rest of him.

"No," he says. "I'm sorry." 

And he sounds so goddamn miserable. He sounds like I feel. Like I always feel around him, because he's so perfect and I'm just me. So I know how he feels, and I can't stand the thought of someone as perfect as Dutchy feeling like that, especially not if it's my fault. I should say something. But what do I say? What the hell do you say to the guy who's the most important person in your life, especially if he doesn't _know_ he's so important?

"Dutchy," I say, quietly. He doesn't respond, and I'm suddenly afraid that maybe he passed out again. "Dutchy!"

His head jerks up and he stares at me.

"Christ, you scared me," I half-accuse. "I thought you'd fainted again." Nine words. I guess I do better when I'm scared.

"No, I just–" he starts, then raises his hand to his face, rubs his cheek with his palm, like he's rubbing something away. "I just wish I hadn't–I hadn't messed things up now." He laughs a little again, but this time it's a bitter laugh, not his usual, genuine laugh. "I–back inside, I had this whole idea about how I was going to tell you I wanted to show you a good time, and I'd make you laugh and we'd have fun and then, I guess, leave together, but if I was you I wouldn't even want to _talk_ to me anymore. Not after what I just–Christ, you must think I'm sick."

Sick? The most perfect person I know just hit on me–I think–and now he thinks I think he's _sick?_ I need to say something. I need to. I can't let him think I don't like him. Even if there's no chance for anything else, I need him to know I don't think that. Not about him.

"I don't," I say softly, wishing I could make myself talk louder, sound confident. Like he always does. Except for now, when he sounds real upset.

"You don't?" he asks, and he sounds real surprised. He looks over at me, and his eyes are bloodshot a little, but he's starting to look Well, not sober, but like he's less likely to pass out on me again. There's a quiet, and I realize he's waiting for me to say something. Again.

I open my mouth to answer, but trip on the words before they can even get out. I shrug a little and hope he understands it. He looks down again, so I don't think he did.

"Oh," he says. He sounds disappointed. He sounds like he doesn't believe me.

"I don't," I manage to say again, maybe a little more clearly. I wish I could find the right words; I bet if I could say something I could make him believe me. I bite my lip for a second, trying to find _something_ to say, but words totally fail me. But I have to let him know it's really okay. I have to. So I do the only thing I can do; I reach over towards him a little, I put my hand on his shoulder.

He looks over at it, startled, then up at me again. He gives me a real faint smile, and I can feel my heart beat faster just looking at it. "Really?" he asks. I nod. "Specs," he says, then stops, and looks unsure. And that's real strange, people like Dutchy always know what to say. Don't they? He opens his mouth like he's going to say something, then closes it again and shakes his head a little.

"Dutchy?" I ask.

"I'm sick," he says again, and now he's staring at his hands.

"No–" I start, and I might even be able to say more, but he interrupts me.

"It's not–it's not what you think. I don't care if I _am_ queer." He pauses and glances up at me, and ads, "I am." I nod a little, startled–I didn't even dare _dream_ that he was, not even in my happiest fantasies–but given what's just happened, not totally _totally_ shocked. He continues, "It's just I gotta _lie_ all the time. I gotta act like, like I'm who I ain't. That's sick. You know? I'm not like you. You know who you are, you don't gotta pretend. You don't gotta mess around with people like me and Bumlets and the guys, you just do whatever you want and don't care.

"Like, like parties and stuff. When you don't want to go you just don't. I mean, like, tonight _I_ didn't want to go. I mean, I wanted I wanted to–well, I asked you come 'cause–ah, fuck it. But you know what I mean? You just don't worry about what people think."

I think I'm staring at him. Is _that_ how he thinks I am? He thinks I don't care what he thinks of me? How did that _happen?_

And then I realize. And I almost start laughing. I shake my head. "Dutchy," I say. "I'm not–I'm not all that." I swallow a little. "I'm just" I'm just me. I'm just the one who doesn't fit in because he _can't_ fit in. There's nothing else about it. "shy," I finish.

He stares at me for a second. "Shy?" he asks. I nod. "That That why you don't talk to me when I try and talk to you?"

I kind of hang my head. He _has_ tried to talk to me. I just never knew how to answer. I nod, and by the time I look back at him, he's smiling again.

"Too shy to tell a a friend if you liked them?" he asks, and I can hear him being _real_ careful about not saying him or her.

I nod again.

"You want me to say it?" he asks, and I smile and nod. "Specs, I kinda like you." I grin, a lot. He reaches up and puts a hand over mine on his shoulder.

"I kinda like you too," I manage to say. That's a real understatement, but it's about all I can manage.

"Was that so hard?" he laughs.

"Yes." Which was true, even though I'm mostly joking.

He laughs again, and man, I love his laugh, and he scrambles up onto the stairs so he's sitting next to me. Real close to me. Like, practically in my lap close to me. I gulp a little and wonder how I got so lucky. I wonder if it's a dream, and any second now Kloppman is gonna wake me up. I hope not.

I stop thinking so much when Dutchy kisses me, though. And really, now, I couldn't talk if I wanted too. My mouth is too busy with other things. 

[end of part three]

[next time: I'd pretend to be subtle and only hint, but really. It's me, and Mush and Blink haven't made an appearance yet. I'm just sayin'...]

[AN: I had to rewrite the second half of this chapter about three times (everything after Dutchy's nosedive) and I'm _still_ not really happy with the way it turned out. But I don't think I can make it that much better. Grrr. I hate when I'm not happy with things.

Well, that's my first attempt at Specs/Dutchy. Normally I picture Dutchy as the quiet one, but I also have this really clear image of drunk!Dutchy as a drunken fratboy, or the 1899 equivalent thereof. And that amused me far too much, so it won out. As for Specs, I think maybe I identified with him a bit too much. Well, not through the whole thing, but the bit about parties at the beginning. Anyway, that's probably why he was swearing so much. 

Specs and Dutchy are so cute together, though. And Dutchy has the prettiest hair ever

-B]


	4. Blink: Remember In the Morning

[disclaimer: Disney's, not mine. Alas.]

__

Birthday

Part Four: Blink

Remember In the Morning

Hoooooboy. Hoooooo_oooooo_boy. I think I'm gonna fall down now. And I'm right. Mush grabs my arm to keep me from actually toppling, but I was standing on a table and it was kind of a long way down from there and I somehow end up mostly in his arms. And I'm pretty sure I'm laughing like a compete loony now, but hey, Mush hasn't let go of me yet, so that's probably okay.

He manages to edge me out of the crowd, to the side of the room, and sneaks out from my arm and lets me collapse into a chair. Which is kind of a shame, but that's the kind of thing I'm glad I don't say aloud. At least, I think I didn't. It's hard to say. I feel kinda floaty and kinda swimmy, like I was swimming through the air or something, and I'm really not sure _what's_ going on. I'm, uh, pretty sure I've been singing, though, my throat is kinda dry.

Which means I probly oughtta have something to drink.

"Mush," I groan. "Izzere–Iz–thuuuursty." 

"Blink, for the love a'" he mutters. "Wait here." And he walks off and I'm giggling again, because his hips look kinda like they're wiggling or maybe that's my imagination, but I like watching him walk off. I just hope he comes back soon.

I do stay where I am, sitting backwards in a chair because that's how I landed, but it's less because Mush said to and more because I don't think I could get up without falling down and even though I don't feel anything right now, it ain't like this hasn't happened before and I know that if I trip it'll hurt something awful later, and Mush yells at me when I do that.

But I guess it is a little because Mush told me to because really, I'd do whatever he tells me to, which is kinda sad, but not so sad, because I _love_ him. Which is another of those things I'm glad I didn't say out loud, as far as I know. I rest my forehead against the back of the chair and kinda doze off or something, because the next thing I know, Mush is shaking me really hard.

"Whaaaaa?" I demand. He rolls his eyes and flops down in a chair next to mine, then shoves a cup of water into my hand. "No, wanted–"

"Oh, shut up, you drunk idiot."

Oops. He sounds mad. I hate it when Mush is mad at me, because I love him. And I think I should tell him so. Yep. I should definitely I should definitely finish my water and thank him for it and keep my mouth shut about other things, yep. Though I kind of hate that my better senses kick in no matter how stinking drunk I am. Half the time I think I do this just so I _will_ say something stupid, 'cause I don't know how to say it otherwise. And 'cause maybe if I'm this drunk and I say it, Mush would forgive me because he'd probably be pretty mad at me otherwise. 'Cause, you know, boys aren't supposed to like other boys. 

But how could anyone _not_ like Mush?

I take a long drink and lean back and forget that the back of the chair is in front of me and almost fall backwards, before Mush grabs my shirt and hauls me upright. "Anx," I manage to say, though I was trying to say thank you. He rolls his eyes and I wonder if that means he understood me or not.

I lean against the seat's back again, because it's the easiest way to not fall down, but I hear some sorta ruckus behind me and look over my shoulder. Mush springs to his feet and dashes over to the crowd near the middle of the room, but I don't think he can see quite what's going on, and after a minute he comes back and looks even more annoyed.

"Wha?" I ask.

"Dutchy passed out." He nudges my shoulder. "Like you keep almost doing."

"I don'"

"You do. You _always_ do. You get drunk, you act like an idiot, you babble like a moron, and–ught. You _always_ fucking _do_ that to me and I can't _stand_ it."

"Wha?"

"Never _mind."_

"But" I wish I didn't have to try and think while I was this drunk, because I get all muddled, but he said something about babbling and I tend to do that anyway, but when I'm drunk I don't really remember what I say. And I hope I didn't say something really stupid, because Mush Because I love Mush. I do. Which I should tell him, because maybe if I tell him, he'll stop being mad at me. "But Mush–"

"Just stop."

"But"

"I said _stop, _god damn it!"

I figure I'd better stop because, you know, he's really pissed. And I hate it when he's pissed. "'M sorry."

"Yeah, whatever." He looks around and I follow his gaze; Specs is helping Dutchy out of the warehouse.

"Damn drunk idiot," Mush mutters.

"Him 'r me?" I say, or at least that's why I tried to say.

"Both of you. Both drunk idiots."

"You–" I try to say. "You do it too–you _do."_

"Not like you do. I don't drink every weekend. I don't do it until I pass out. I don't–I don't fucking talk about–about stupid–I don't babble and then forget what the hell I said after I pass out! Okay, so don't fucking tell me I drink because _you_–" He stops.

"Whaaat?" I ask again.

"Nothing. Nevermind."

"Telllll meeeee." I really wish I wasn't so drunk because this sound important.

"If you don't remember it doesn't even matter." He crosses his arms and leans back in the chair and glares at me. I hate it when he's mad at me, I hate it. 

"Muuuush."

"I'm getting outta here. Make sure Jack or someone walks you home." He stands, and I reach out to grab his arm and keep him from leaving, but he gets out of my grip and I fall, and he lets me this time. I land hard on my elbow knee and damn, that's going to hurt when I sober up. I think I'm bleeding. I glance down and can see some blood and that probably means I am.

Mush is walking off.

"Mush, wait–" I yell and scramble to my feet and try and go after him, but he can move a lot faster than I can because I keep very nearly falling down and I think I musta knocked into a bunch of people but I don't really have time to care right now. I see Mush stomp outside and slam the door and I manage to follow.

Specs and Dutchy are sitting outside and they don't look happy to be interrupted and I kind of trip over Specs and fall down the last step and land on my elbows and knees _again_ and they're still bleeding and Mush is out of sight and I swear I'm gonna cry or scream or _something_. "Where?" I ask desperately, looking behind me. Specs is rubbing his shoulder where I kicked him when I tripped and he looks _really_ annoyed.

"What?" he snaps.

"Mush–I gotta–gotta find–"

Dutchy points down the road and I scramble to my feet. I'll thank him later if I remember, but I've got a habit of not remembering things when I'm drunk. Which Mush was yelling about so I guess I musta said something when I was drunk that I shoulda remembered.

And I think I know what it was because I'm drunk but not _stupid._

"Mush!" I yell as I run as best as I can in the direction Specs pointed. I'm glad the sidewalk is pretty clear and even, because otherwise I'd keep falling down and I'd probably break my neck. Instead I just keep stumbling and yelling out his name.

I keep going and going and I bet he turned somewhere but I can't be sure, so I just keep going. It feels like I've been running forever, if this even counts as running, and I'm out of breath and dizzy and alone and I suddenly realize I have no clue where I am and I'm in Brooklyn in the middle of the night. And all of those things are bad enough on their own, but put them together and I'm pretty much screwed.

I slow and stop and sit down in the middle of the sidewalk because if I don't sit down, I'll fall down. "Mush," I groan aloud. I'm pretty much waiting to be mugged now. I can hear someone behind me and tense up but don't move incase whoever it is is just walking by.

"You damn drunk idiot."

I look up and behind me and he's there, looking kind of pissed off but kind of amused. "Mush?" I ask, in case I'm hearing things or something.

"Yeah, yeah," he sighs. "The turn to go home is a few blocks back that way." He points the way I came from. "I heard you–turned around and saw you run right past me. Idiot." He crouches down next to me, shakes his head. "You shoulda waited and had someone walk you home."

"No," I say insistently. "No, because I–you were mad. At me. And I hate it when you're mad at me."

"Don't worry about it." He looks me over. "You're bleeding."

"Still?" I ask.

He frowns and rubs his hand over my elbow and it comes away bloody. "Yeah. Not much now, though. What happened?"

"Tripped. Almost kicked Specs 'n the head."

He laughs. "Why didn't you just stay there?"

"'Cause you was _mad._"

"I wasn't. Not really."

"You sounded mad." I think the air is helping or something, because even though I'm still feeling all floaty, like I'm watching someone talk to Mush who isn't me, at least I can talk now, more or less. He sits down next to me, and that makes me pretty excited.

"I was just kinda annoyed."

"At me?"

"Yeah."

"For drinking?"

"Yeah."

I frown a little. "I won't," I tell him. "If, if you don't–I don't like it when you're mad at me. So I won't do it anymore. I won't."

He gives me a look I don't understand. "That's what you said last week."

I did? "I did?" I ask aloud.

"Yeah."

Oh. "Oh."

Hmmm. I guess I kinda tend to say what I'm thinking when I'm drunk. "You shoulda reminded me," I tell him.

"You wouldn't a' listened," he points out, which is probably true. At least he doesn't sound so mad anymore, more just calm. "The only time you do something is when you really want to, an' telling you can't make you want to." He suddenly looks kinda sad, and I really really want to stop drinking, just so he won't look so _sad_ anymore.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it.

"Yeah?" he asks, and he sounds like he thinks I don't mean it.

"I am. For, for saying things and forgetting them. 'Cause I don't wanna hurt you, Mush. I never wanna hurt you."

He smiles a little sadly and nods. "I know that, Kid."

"Did I" I ask, and trail off. "Did I tell you anything, uh, else? And then forget?"

"Yeah." He looks up at the smoggy sky. "Don't worry about it. I'm used to it."

"You are?" That's news to me.

"You been doing this to me for a long time, Kid."

"Oh." I didn't realize that, either. "'M sorry," I say again.

"Don't be. Just Nah, never mind."

"What?"

"Nothin'," he insists.

"No, _what?"_ I ask again.

"You You always say the same stuff, every time, and You never remember. I just wonder if it's true, is all."

"If what's true?" I ask, my heart beating really fast.

He sighed and shrugged. "If it was true, you'd know. I don' wanna tell you an' get you thinkin' things that ain't true."

I pause, and nod a little, then look over at him. He looks all serious and kinda sad, and I'm _sure_ of what he's talking about, and I break into a grin. "But it _is_ true, Mush. I _do_ love you."

And then he stares at me, and he sorta smiles too. "Let's see if you remember that in the mornin', Kid," he says. "C'mon, let's get home." He stands and offers me a hand up, which I'd definitely need, except I don't _wanna_ get up. He doesn't believe me. I told him I love him and he doesn't _believe_ me! That ain't right. 

I take his hand, but instead of getting up I pull him back down. It only works 'cause he wasn't expecting it; Mush is stronger than me (he's got the muscle and it shows, you can see whenever he takes off his shirt, and sometimes I can't help but stare) and I'm drunk, but he stumbles forward a step and falls back into a sitting position. "Kid?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I'll 'member," I promise him.

"Yeah, right."

"No, I will." 

He shrugs, like he just doesn't feel like arguing about it. So I guess I'm gonna have to show him I mean it, and do something I won't be able to forget. And it's a good thing I'm still pretty drunk, 'cause otherwise I wouldn't have the guts to do it Even if I did already tell him every time I get drunk, like he said I do. 

And now that I'm thinking of it He doesn't seem to mind so much that I tell him, just that I forget. Maybe it's a good idea. But I'm bad at guessing what's a good idea and what's a bad idea when I'm drunk. But, what the hell? 

So I do it. "I'll remember," I promise him, surprised at how clear my voice is, and then I lean over towards him and kiss him. I know my breath must be awful bad, but his ain't that much better, and anyway, he doesn't seem to mind. I mean, it was just a quick kiss, but he looks kinda stunned.

"You never done that before," he finally says.

"Nope," I agree. "But I'd kinda like to do it again."

So I do. And this time, he kisses me back.

I'm kissing Mush Meyers and he's kissing me back. You know, sometimes being drunk enough to be brave can be worth it all. Happy birthday, Spot, but I'm the one who's getting the real present. 

And there's no way I'll forget this by morning, because sitting here on the sidewalk in Brooklyn, I ain't even worried about getting mugged no more. Because I think the only people in the world are me and Mush, and I hope it stays like this. I hope I never sober up and have to think about what it means, I hope it's never morning and this night, this minute, can last forever.

Because I love him, and he knows. I love knowing that he knows and he doesn't seem to mind. And I just Love him. And we must look silly, sitting here on the sidewalk kissing, but I'm still _way_ too drunk to care. Because this, it's just _right,_ like it was meant to happen. It's me and it's Mush and I don't think I could forget it if I tried.

[fin]

[Actually, there's going to be an epilogue eventually, but still. It's pretty much done.]

[AN: Um, did I mention that my darling Blink!muse is an alcoholic? Poor baby needs AA.

I actually wrote two entirely different versions of this, but this one was cuter, so I used it. I'll probably turn the second one into an entirely different story at some point when I'm not feeling lazy. (Heh. Yeah, right.)

Anyhoo, it's my birthday, so it's Blink week! July 15-21, post your Blink fics. You know you wanna. :)

Nothing else to say, really. Woo!

-B]


	5. Epilogue

[disclaimer: Disney's, not mine. Alas.]

__

Birthday

Epilogue

It's almost morning; Spot's birthday has been over for a few hours now. The party broke up, finally, with people trickling out alone, or with a group of friends, or for a few lucky people, with _a_ friend, the _right_ friend.

Jack and David are still sitting in the alley. Jack wants a cigarette, but doesn't want to move and wake David; David is asleep, curled up next to him, head resting on Jack's lap. Jack sighs a little, happily.

He's been wondering about things for awhile now. Things he doesn't really understand. Things about boys, and girls, and why people act the way they do; why he feels the way he does. Though really, he's been wondering just how he really feels about the whole thing.

But then there's David. And Jack smiles, places a gentle hand on David's shoulder, and realizes it doesn't matter. Boys or girls, it just doesn't _matter._ What he wants–who he wants–is David.

*

Spot hurries to get dressed, trying to do it as quietly as possible. He's confused, really, maybe a little scared, if it's even possible for Spot to be scared anymore. He knows what he just did, and knows that Race Well, things with Race felt okay. Not like being with a girl, but okay.

But he's _not_ queer, he's sure of it.

Race is dozing, half-dressed, in his chair, with a content smile on his face. Spot wants to smile back, but can't bring himself to. It's too strange. He finishes buttoning his shirt and is about to leave, when, "Happy birthday, Spot."

He turns around sharply, and Race still looks half-asleep, gentle smile still in place, and without the shame Spot's feeling.

"Thanks," Spot manages to say.

"Spot, if" He trails off, stops. It isn't often that Racetrack can't find the right words. "If that _wasn't_ what you wanted, I'm sorry," he finally manages.

Spot says nothing, he can find nothing to say, and shrugs a little. Race stares down at the table, guilt playing across his face, but he doesn't bother to hide it. He could if he wanted to, his poker face has never failed him, but this isn't about poker. It's about a friend, it's about trust.

"I just–" Spot starts, then stops. "I ain't never I'm not. Like. That."

"Okay," Race agrees. "Me neither."

Spot frowns a little. "But"

It's Race's turn to shrug. "It wasn't real," he explains. "It was just two guys looking for someone to trust. Friends helping each other out. Not like it was real."

Spot nods; that's something he can understand. It's easier for him to think that way, and he wonders if that makes it easier for Race, too. He lets out a deep, relieved breath, but has one other thing he needs to know. "Race, you ever been Like that With a boy before?"

"Nah," Race answers, and Spot is relieved again. But he wonders if he's being conned. He knows Race could bluff that easily.

But

"Okay," he says. "I trust you."

Race smiles again, feeling a tiny bit relieved himself. "I trust you too." Spot starts to leave again, but Race calls after him. "So, same time next year?" he asks, but he sounds like he's probably joking.

Spot doesn't answer, just slams the door a little harder than necessary behind him. But despite it all, he's smiling to himself.

* 

Specs and Dutchy aren't kissing anymore. They realized that kissing in public like that was probably a bad idea. But neither one wanted to go back inside. Dutchy didn't want to go back to pretending to be who he wasn't, even though he knows he has to as soon as there are other people around. Specs knows, too, and isn't thrilled about it But he's seen a side of Dutchy no one else has, and that's worth watching Dutchy pretend for everyone else.

And everyone else won't always be there, anyway, so when Specs and Dutchy can be alone together Specs smiles. He won't just get to spend time with Dutchy after tonight, he'll get to spend time _alone_ with Dutchy.

They aren't making out anymore, but they're sitting next to each other on the stairs, close but not touching, feeling a kind of electricity in the inches between them. It's like a challenge, to see how close they can get without touching, and a contest to see who can go the longest without messing up, putting his hand on the other boy's arm or knee. It's hard, so they have to keep themselves busy.

They keep busy by talking. For the first time, Specs can talk to Dutchy, and he realizes he loves talking to Dutchy. Talking to Dutchy makes him feel special, like maybe he doesn't always have to be on the edge of the group, like he does have some sort of place.

Listening to Specs makes Dutchy feel good. It makes him happy that he can help a friend feel wanted, but it makes him happier because the friend is Specs. And Specs doesn't talk to anyone, really, but he _chose_ Dutchy. So Dutchy hangs on his every word, fascinated by the sound of Specs's voice. 

The door keeps opening, people keep coming out and interrupting them. The girls Dutchy was with all night leave, and wonder why he doesn't seem to notice or care, because they don't see that two lost souls have found each other.

*

Mush and Blink haven't made it home yet, but they found a nice little park, not more than a spit of grass with a tree and a bench, and have fallen asleep hand in hand. A slight breeze blows, and Blink suddenly finds himself awake again, and not quite sober yet. But not as drunk as he was, either.

He looks over at Mush, who's got his knees pulled up to his chest, his head resting on his arm resting on his knees, his other arm free so that he didn't have to let go of Blink's hand. And Blink smiles.

He gives Mush's hand a little squeeze, but Mush doesn't stir. But that's okay, because they have plenty of time coming up. Because Blink _remembers._ He leans in as close to Mush as he can, and looks up at the sky, wishing he could see the moon or stars through the smog and the city lights. He can't, but that's okay. He doesn't need stars for it to be romantic.

He just needs Mush, and he _has_ Mush, so things are perfect as far as he's concerned.

[fin, again, for real this time]

[AN: Race!muse is still an insomniac. I can't help it, but the boy never gets to sleep in any of my stories. Pooooooor baby. Or something. And I did cheer that scene up a bit, originally Spot wasn't smiling on the way out, but ::shrug:: Fluff is fun, but for some reason, doesn't come easily with those two. 

Thanks to: Max, Skittles, Twiggy, Becky, Sweet Anne, Alicia, Demon, hilaRy, Omni, Skinflint, Ginny Jake, Skywise, Stage, Jen, Gothic Author, Nerikla, Shot Hunter, Funkiechick, Sparkle Kelly Conlon, Giggles, Geometrygal, Ivy, Judespace, Fidget Conlon, sugarNspice, Lady Elwen, Hotshot, and Thistle for the fabulous reviews. Woo!

Man, now I need to find another excuse to write fluff ::ponders::

-B]


End file.
